Invincible
by trufflemores
Summary: Sick!Klaine since I haven't that before. Basically Blaine gets the flu and gives it to Kurt and grumpy sick!Kurt ensues. Klaine. COMPLETE.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

By his own admission (and, indeed, insistence), Kurt didn't get sick. Instead, he suffered occasional bouts of unwellness that he ruthlessly but efficiently eradicated. At the first sign of a sniffle, he drank tea and supplemented his diet with all manner of natural cold cures conceivable until the would-be illness skulked back to the ether to torment some other, less fortunate soul.

His conviction was so strong that he lasted the entirety of Blaine's vicious acquaintance with the flu without entertaining the possibility that he, too, could succumb to it. He took precautions – washed his hands more often, carefully avoided extended contact when he could (which wasn't, admittedly, often, given the fact that Blaine looked so _miserable_), and ate well and washed their sheets frequently – but he also skirted the edge of it, tempting fate every time that he interacted with Blaine. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn't have avoided Blaine entirely: they shared an apartment and a life and countless other things.

So it was both a shock and a complete nonevent when he awoke with a gripping headache and dry mouth, a sore throat already well underway. Communicating with Blaine primarily in grunts proved to be surprisingly effectively; still a little slow on his own feet, Blaine didn't question his reticence at breakfast, merely setting up the pot and yawning sleepily into his own shoulder every few seconds. It made Kurt want to crawl underneath the sheets and never leave, especially once Blaine did just that with a murmured apology and a soft, barely audible sigh behind the curtain as he sank into the mattress.

Kurt envied him, but he also had a full day of work to get through if he wanted to stay on his manager's good side. The Spotlight Diner might not have been the most extravagant job that New York had to offer, but well-paying entry-level positions were difficult to come by, and fewer diners received more frequent, wealthy patrons than the Spotlight, making it highly desirable. Santana had been generous to help Rachel and he get jobs there, and he wasn't about to jeopardize that by taking a sick day.

Besides, he wasn't sick. He couldn't be.

After he showered and dressed and stepped out into the brisk New York air, he felt a little better – not much in the way of physical health, but invigorated, somehow, by the mere act of following his routine. As long as he could keep moving, then he would be fine; it was the act of standing still that made him aware of the aches and pains he couldn't afford to indulge.

So he smiled his way through the morning half of his shift, flitting from one table to the next and serving guests with joyless efficiency. The tips were modest but steady; the patrons, less modest but in near constant supply. It wasn't until three o'clock – a full six hours after he'd begun – that he noticed a cold sweat accumulating on his forehead, his cheeks rosy while the rest of his face remained remarkably pale in the tiny employee mirror.

Gunther took one look at him in passing and ordered, "Go home, Hummel."

Reluctantly but knowing better than to argue, Kurt obliged.

The subway ride home was ludicrously long in Kurt's mind as he clung to the metal pole and willed himself to be at the loft already. It was raining, a dense, heavy rain that promised snow later, by the time he shuffled up to the stairs and hurried inside, climbing to the fourth floor with heavy, aching footsteps.

He didn't bother to announce his arrival with words, sliding the door back and dropping most of his wet clothing off at the coat rack. Blaine was curled up on the couch watching a movie – Kurt couldn't tell what it was and, with his head still throbbing ferociously, didn't care – when he entered, looking up and fixing him with concerned eyes.

"Kurt?" he asked.

Making a noncommittal noise as he undid the laces on his boots, Kurt sighed and padded over to the couch, settling down onto the space beside Blaine and letting his forehead rest against his shoulder with a soft thunk.

"I can't believe you did this to me," he grumbled, wrapping his arms around Blaine's waist tightly and curling his own legs up on the couch, pressed against Blaine's side from hip to shoulder.

"You make it sound like I got you pregnant," Blaine teased.

Kurt made him sleep on the couch that night.

Which might have been effective if he hadn't dragged half the blankets to the couch and flopped down on top of him twenty minutes later.

Sick or not, cuddles with Blaine were still the best.


End file.
